I need $200,000. No, really. I know that would normally only happen when pigs fly, but seriously, I want my car to fly. And for a mere $200,000, I can live out my dream. But I need to back up…

My father, whom we aptly name Sky King for his prowess as a pilot during WWII, was blessedly cursed with four daughters who would rather play with their Barbies than show any interest whatsoever in his airplanes, stories of airplanes, his stash of airplane magazines or rides in his airplane. Luckily for him, a son came along, and dad finally nabbed my poor brother in his web of glue-sniffing-model-airplane-building and all other activities aeronautique.

I think one reason I dislike roller coasters to this day is from some buried emotional trauma I experienced sitting in the cockpit of my dad's airplane as a child. During one flight, he mumbled something about "testing" the gas tanks. With no warning, he shut everything down mid-air, we descended steeply, and he revved everything back up. to test the spare tank. "He's kidding, right?" I thought to myself as we dropped from the sky like a free-fall ride at an amusement park. Meanwhile, my peanut butter sandwich was jammed somewhere between my esophagus and my tonsils, and my milk was jettisoning out of my nostrils. I bet Ken never made Barbie do that.

It wasn't until I was older that I learned to finally relax and enjoy the bonding time that flying with my father provided. It was just the two of us, with him pointing out various landmarks and me soaking up the colors and imagery of the beautiful landscape. Soaring through the azure skies, like a bird finally un-caged, is like no other sensation. And deep inside, I'm a bit jealous that my brother was the only one who was the beneficiary of my father’s flying acumen, while we girls learned how to iron (yoke first) and make a really good meatloaf. I have to admit, however, that I do make a damn good meatloaf...

Well, move over, Amelia, because as soon as I can afford it, I'm buying a Terrafugia which in Latin means "escape from land." Now we really can say, “It’s a bird, it’s a plane!” Although the name doesn't slip off the tongue as easily as Jag or Beemer, and sounds like something my Italian mother-in-law used to whip up in the kitchen, with this new "roadable aircraft" I could fly up to 400 miles on a single tank of gas at a cruising speed of 115 mph in the air, or fold my wings up like an umbrella and hit the highway.

OK, so I'll still need a pilot's license...and, oh, a major long driveway...and, oh yeah, how about them blind spots? And what does one do when that cute officer asks you to, "Kindly step out of the automobile, Ma'am."?

Shoot, there goes my dream of being able to hit the beach this summer without sitting in a 25-mile backup on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, or legally parking on the rooftop of the closest DSW.

Oh, well, I guess Wilbur and Orrville had a lot of naysayers and kinks to get out of their contraption also. One can always dream.

But if and when this contraption ever does ever come to fruition, this could give a whole new meaning to the term "flipping someone the bird.

 

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CATHERINE DECENZO
Catherine DeCenzo is a freelance writer and Managing Editor of I Am Modern magazine living in Broadlands, VA. She prefers the glass-half-full, humorous side of life and has an appetite for the irreverent in her personal blog at http://catclause.wordpress.com